


Killing Time

by orphan_account



Series: Killing Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASiP Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan had been... well, that was the problem. There had been no plan for this. A study of "A Study in Pink".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The plan had been… well, that was the problem. For the first time in John Watson’s life, there _was_ no plan. No structure. No orders. Nothing.

Void.

Which is why he found himself gravitating to the river.

Away from the alleged freedoms of civilian life.

Away from the psychiatrist.

Away from Harry (but that was no matter – she never called him).

The river, unplanned and harsh, despite the efforts of man to curb it: currents and eddies swirling, bringing debris to the shore and carrying it away again. Debris like him.

The river, penned by concrete and steel, polluted and filthy and wild.

It was too damp to sleep in his favorite spot, he’d taken to the dubious comfort of the Vauxhall Arches, tucked away in a corner where his yells in the dark would be ignored, but by day he found himself drawn, limping along until he found the spot – a piling beneath the Waterloo Bridge where he could listen to the thundering of traffic above and watch the flow of the river before him.

When Jimmy seized one night, he was the one who was there to help her, who saved her life (or at least allowed her to survive another day) and if felt, for a moment, as it had been back then.

Back when he mattered.

He gained the reputation of being helpful, the one who could patch up the injured, the one who would sit with the young women at the clinic, offer comfort for the dying, scrounge up what supplies he could to help.

It was how he met Sarah.

“I could get you work,” she offered. “Do you have a place to stay? A flat-mate?”

He’d smiled and said no, thank you.

Who’d want a flat mate like him?

He preferred the river. She didn’t ask awkward questions about the limp. But then, neither did the homeless.

Sarah eventually also stopped asking. Sarah, who would slip him extra gauze, tape, antiseptic, even latex gloves when he’d come by the clinic with another young woman, pregnant and scared, or another young lad, far from home and sick.

Just like in Afghanistan.

* * *

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

He’d not heard the other man’s approach, spun slightly and caught himself off-balance as his leg gave way and he nearly fell.

“Careful,” said the man, steadying him with a gloved hand.

Expensive coat. Expensive shoes. Slumming. Junkie? Probably. Pretty boy playing.

“What the hell…”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Does it matter?”

Why should you care? What do you want to take from me? Not gonna happen. Don’t even need the Browning here.

“Not particularly. I’m curious.”

“How did you know?”

“Haircut says army, despite the fact that it’s growing out. You shave, not as regularly as you’d prefer, but regularly enough in the doss houses. Your tan lines: you were in the sun but…”

“All right. Enough.” John held up his hand. “Afghanistan.”

“I thought so – you’re not cold enough for Iraq.”

“That’s amazing.”

“You think so?”

“That’s not what most people say.”

“What do they say?”

“Piss off. Do you want some coffee?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” A wide smile.

Firm handshake. Didn’t take off his gloves. Probably afraid of being infected by yet another member of the Great Unwashed.

* * *

Jimmy told him about Sherlock.

“’’s his network. His irregulars, he calls ‘em. Right generous he is. And all for information.”

“He doesn’t trade in the usual...?”

Jimmy smiled around her paper cup of coffee.

“Him? Nah. Don’t think he’d be after us. Though it used to be … But not for that. Drugs, you know.”

No. He hadn’t. Didn’t.

Sherlock kept coming back, almost regularly – John was never sure if he would be there or not.

He always brought coffee, and he usually brought a newspaper.

They’d sit beneath the bridge, the rush of the river and the thundering of traffic a counterpoint to companionship.

Sherlock called himself a “consulting detective” and as far as John could determine, it meant that he pretended to solve crimes before the police could, mostly from reading the criminal blotter in the paper.

And one week, Sherlock vanished.

It was the same week that Harry started calling him and leaving messages on his phone:

“Where are you, John?”

“Why don’t you answer your phone?”

“Clara and I are both deeply worried about you.”

“We’re getting back together.”

“John, you can’t just drop out of life like this. I’ll call the police if you don’t call me back within three hours.”

At that point John had to call her back. Had to tell her. Had to try to explain:

“I’m sleeping rough, Harry.”

“I don’t have a job.”

“I don’t want a job.”

“I can’t do this, Harry.”

“I’m not going to be your counselor.”

“You should go back to the Program. It helped you.”

“Clara’s not… No, nothing. Forget I said it.”

“I’m sorry. No. No, I’ll call you later. I promise, yeah. Bye.”

Sherlock found him then, standing at the edge of the bridge, phone in his hand, hand shaking.

Beneath them the water seethed.

It would be easy, so easy.

Being part of the river. The rushing in his veins. Pounding blood in his ears.

Cold. Wet. Dashed against the pilings.

How many had done that?

 _And became a headless trunk upon the shore._

“What do you want?” Damn the tremors. Hand, voice. His free hand gripped the railing, knuckles white.

“You’re a doctor.”

“And you could tell that from, what, my left boot?” His leg was hurting again. It wasn’t injured. It shouldn’t hurt.

“No, but your limp is psychosomatic. You were right to abandon your therapist, though, even if she was correct about that. I know you’re a doctor because Jimmy told me.”

John wished Jimmy would have kept her mouth shut.

“I need a doctor.”

“You’re ill? Surely, you’re well off enough – you don’t even have the looks of an NHS patient.” Scorn in his voice. Still grasping the railing.

“No. I need an army doctor, I need somebody who’s seen a lot of violent death.”

Seagulls wheeled overhead.

Would that they would shit on that ponce’s coat. Cost more than my entire kit. Not that there’s anything there. Phone’s not mine. Browning, best not think about that. Gauze, latex gloves, extra jumper – came from Murray’s mum, right before…

No, no, no. Don’t think about that. Don’t listen to the voices.

Why is this happening in the daytime? Night. At night this stalks me not during the daytime.

“Oh, what?”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Seen a lot of violent death.”

“Yes. Enough, more than enough for a lifetime.” Damn the tremor in his hand. Wind tugged at his hair.

“Want to see some more?”

Before him, the river flowed, swirled, fought against the man-made banks. The damp smell of rot and death and life rose in his nostrils.

Life. Death. Release. Would that it were that easy.

John could feel the man’s presence – just behind his right ear. The tickle of breath on his hair.

And he made a choice.

He dropped the phone and it fell, fell, fell, splashing into the murk below him. A flash of silver and black, catching the light before it sank.

He turned and saw that the man was staring at him – strangely light eyes intense.

“Oh, God, yes.”

The tide was turning.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, Freak.”

“Sally!”

“You’re bringing your homeless friends now?”

“This is John Watson. He’s a consultant. Come on, John. Anderson’s incompetent but Lestrade’s the best of a bad lot. Leave your kit there.”

* * *

A spill of bright pink and blonde on the gritty floor of the decaying building.

John closed his eyes.

Death in Afghanistan was bright and hard and cold: silver of instruments, wellsprings of blood. Body parts.  
Contorted faces. Dust. Dust everywhere, and blood beneath his fingernails.

“What do we know about her?” Sherlock was crouched by the body.

An argument over German with the Scene of Crimes Officer.

He knew no German. The room smelled of mildew and decay and vomit.

In Afghanistan, death smelled of dust and pain and petrol and disinfectant.

“John?”

He hobbled over to her, eased to the floor.

She was cold. Dead for several hours at least. Up close, she looked older than the shock of blonde hair had led him to believe.

Nobody in Afghanistan had hair like this.

Nobody on the streets – dingy, dirty, greasy, tangled.

His scalp itched to think of it.

Lestrade coughed.

Do your job.

I don’t have a job…

"No sign of alcohol. Perhaps she was drugged? Choked on her own vomit.” he found his professional voice rusty, easing back on his good leg.

The floor was hard, gritty beneath his knees.

His leg throbbed with the effort. His brain swirled. It wasn't like… wasn't like what he thought he remembered.

And it wasn't just the soldiers.

The young mothers who came to the clinic for help.

The girl dressed as a boy because it was the only safe passage through dangerous streets.

The boys who ran behind the convoys.

The men who gathered at the police stations, looking for work.

A woman in pink in a dingy attic in a decaying building somewhere in London. It seemed so incongruous.

Focus on _his_ voice. It’s his fault you’re here.

A rattling of observations and conclusions.

A wellspring of admiration as facts and suppositions fell into place, like warmth radiating up his spine, filling his head with images. A puzzle solved. He caught himself smiling.

He couldn’t but be impressed. Fool that he was.

“That’s amazing!”

“Do you think so?” He’d never seen anybody look so pleased.

The room reeked of death, and Sherlock beamed at him.

“Yeah, but what about revenge?” Lestrade’s voice.

"If she’s dying, she's not going to write 'revenge'. God! What is it like in your tiny little minds?"

John eased himself up from the floor. To be grabbed by Sherlock.

"If you were dying, _really_ dying," he demanded, "what would your last…"

An explosion of sound. Light. Pain.

The certain knowledge that he was dying.

The knowledge that he didn't want to. That he'd trade everything he owned for another moment.

Please, God, let me live. The joke that _that_ turned out to be.

"Please, God, let me live."

"No, come on! Try to imagine…"

"I don't have to."

In a world infested with noise, the silence that followed was crushing.

* * *

"Yes, but where's her case?"

"Case?"

“CASE!” Sherlock’s bellow echoing in the stairwell.

Limping down the stairs, he caught Lestrade looking askance at him.

“Know a thing or two, do you?” he asked after Sherlock had bounded out of the house. “He said you were a doctor.”

“I am. Was.”

“You have a place to kip?”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

Lestrade grunted and turned away.

John hoisted his bag over his shoulder and looked in vain for Sherlock.

Sally, the Sargent with the knees – how had he managed to _do_ that? And who in their right mind told a woman he knew she was a mistress? A mad one. Sally was standing by a police car, looking irritated and bored.

“He’s run off,” Sally said. “He does that.”

Shit.

“Where am I?”

“Erm, Brixton.”

Shit.

“Can I… my leg…”

“Taxi. Maybe you can find one in the high street.”

Donovan looked right through him.

“Stay away from that guy,” she said as he limped down the street. “He gets off on this.”

No worries there.

* * *

The phone ringing in the kebab place startled him.

Even after weeks, months – he’d lost track – the unexpected noises still caught him off guard. He froze. Humanity brushed past him.

Maybe he could find a place down here to kip. Somewhere nobody would bother him.

He was out of his territory.

He needed… he needed a shower.

The dosshouse was too far for him to walk.

Fuck, bus fare would’ve been nice.

The phonebox jangled.

He stopped. Shifted his kit.

The phone rang again.

Why not?

“Dr Watson. Do you see the security cameras?”

Oh, now what? The last time he’d encountered a voice like this was the SAS officer.

No. No. No. Not again. He was supposed to be _done_. The last time this had happened… The last phone call in the middle of the night…

Ridiculous. It was barely seven-thirty.

“I don’t think I need to threaten you,” the voice commented as a sleek black car pulled up.

He didn’t really have a choice, did he?

Had he ever?

* * *

The woman in the car had the grace not to wrinkle her nose.

“Any chance of you telling me where we’re going?”

“None whatsoever.” She smiled at her Blackberry.

Right. Of course.

“Right.”

London slipped past them. Lights, cars, busses, the squealing of tires and the flow of traffic. The flow of artificial life, streaming along the high street.

John longed for the seething of the river.

* * *

Tidy. Buttoned down. Frightening . Commanding.

“Who the hell are you?”

“A concerned party.”

John willed himself not to stand at attention – a soldier’s reaction to the power radiating from the other man. The man who was reading from a small black book.

“History of trauma. A skilled, if not a gifted, surgeon. One sister, although not living with her. Living on the street.”

John found a spot over the man’s shoulder and stared.

“Your therapist was deeply concerned when you dropped off her roster. You seem to have dropped out of _life_ entirely.”

There were cracks in the concrete block wall behind him. He didn’t need to look at the man to see the distaste.

“It says here you have trust issues. And yet…”

And yet?

“You have been associating with Sherlock Holmes for exactly six weeks and three days.”

What the hell?

“I barely know the man.”

The other man paused – seemingly satisfied.

“He brings you coffee and a newspaper, and tonight he took you to Brixton to the scene of a murder.”

John shifted his gaze back to the wall.

 _So it was murder, then_.

“Would you care to explain why?”

“No.”

“I can make it worth your while, Dr Watson. I am prepared to offer you a substantial sum of money to keep an…”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. I said no. Sir.”

A faint smile. Water dripped somewhere.

“You’re very loyal very quickly. It is unlike Sherlock Holmes to engender such loyalty.”

There wasn’t much John could say to that.

“I would hate to think he’s slipping back into,” a pause, “bad habits.”

John chose a new point on the wall.

The man stepped forward.

John could smell laundry detergent and a faint whiff of cologne.

Mostly just the danger.

Just how fucked he was slowly dawned on him.

“May I?” The man held out his hand. John twitched away.

The look he got for his pains was impatient. John allowed him the touch. Pulled his rock-steady left hand up.

John began counting down in his head. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…

The hands were soft – John tried to remember the last time he’d trimmed his nails.

Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. Find another spot on the wall.

The hand was released.

The man was backing away, eyes on his face.

John watched him turn with almost military precision.

“You’re not haunted by the war. You miss it.”

It felt like a blow to the solar plexus.

“When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.”

John had seen quite enough of battlefields in his day. He wrapped his hand around his cane, knuckles whitening.

Pain shot through his leg.

“Time to choose a side, Dr Watson.”

A parting shot as the man walked away.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The click-click-click of heels. Rage welled in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“I’m to take you home.”  



	3. Chapter 3

He made "Erm… Anthea" drop him off beneath the Waterloo Bridge.

She made no comment as he shifted out of the car.

The wind swirled around his ankles, tugging at the dirty cuffs of his jeans.

Why had he not made her leave him closer to Euston Station, where the dosshouse was?

He closed his eyes and smelled the river and the traffic.

Somewhere there was a taxi idling.

Alone, again. Of course.

Except there were people now, people who were taking an interest in him.

Shit, bugger, and bollocks.

People who drove expensive cars and had expensive assistants.

He was in trouble.

And he wasn't alone.

He had half a second's warning before Sherlock loomed out of the shadows beneath the pilings and shoved a mobile phone into his hand.

"You dropped yours in the river. Foolish thing to do, since it's not actually _your_ phone. Inconvenient, but not insurmountable. Use this to send this exact text…"

It wasn't until John had finished that he noticed a shocking pink suitcase at Sherlock's feet.

"Is that…" he asked.

"Yes. It only took me two hours to find the right skip. The killer must have had it with him, and then discovered it after he'd killed her. But her phone's not in it."

"Her phone…"

"Is gone, yes. I think the killer still has it. Which is where you came in."

"Where I come in?"

"Yes, that was her number."  
John sat down heavily on the concrete block. The river suddenly sounded very loud in his ears.

"Excuse me, but I just texted a murderer?"

"Yes. Which is why you're coming with me. He should be wondering what the hell is going on right about…" Sherlock looked at his watch. "Now. Come on."

"I – what?" How was it that Sherlock was able to flummox him so completely?

"You're coming with me. We're going to wait for him."

"Why… why me?"

"Well, if you don't want to come…"

"No, no, I just…"

"Come on, then!" Sherlock bounded away, waving to a taxi loitering by the railing. John stood carefully, shifted his pack, and followed him like a dinghy in the wake of a ship.

A tall, erratic, insane ship.

The cab driver gave Sherlock an appraising look as he hauled the pink case into the cab.

"Just what are you, anyway?" John asked in the dark and silence. The driver watched them in his mirror.

Don't get many homeless, do you, mate?

"What do you think I am?" Sherlock was staring out the window, apparently fascinated.

"I'd say private detective, but…"

"The police don’t consult amateurs."

"And the DI invited you to the crime scene."

"The phrase is 'consulting detective'. When the police are out of their depth, which is _always_ , they call me."

Oh. Right.

"Oh, right."

John watched Sherlock. Sherlock watched the traffic.

Stillness settled between them and crept into John's soul.

Tendrils of peace.

Was this what it was like when one was … normal?

* * *

It was the police who were waiting when they alighted at 221B Baker Street.

In the hallway, Sherlock's landlady was fluttering.

"Oh, Sherlock… what have you done?" She was nearly in tears.

And then she saw John.

"Oh, who…?"

But Sherlock had already bounded up the stairs.

"I'm, erm, nobody, I suppose," John said. "I won't…" He eased his bag down and looked out the door. The cab loitered.

The driver watched him.

"Oh, well, I was… hoping… a roommate, or perhaps…"

"No, erm, sorry. Not a…"

"That's quite all right, dear. You don't look the type, anyway."

John managed a smile. "Excuse me," he said and followed Sherlock. Or rather, he followed the shouting from upstairs.

The stairs were narrow and dark.

The flat above was chaos: files, boxes, a human skull on the mantle, and sitting in the middle of the room like a king was Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock was fuming.

John paused at the door.

"Drugs bust." Lestrade's voice was triumphant.

What the hell?

"Drugs bust." Sherlock's voice held no inflection.

"As you can see." Lestrade was practically chortling.

"You're joking. Anderson's not even on the Drugs Squad." Sherlock took a step forward.

Lestrade held up his hand. The look on his face was one John had seen plenty of times before.

Usually before a man got shot.

"No, _technically_ they're volunteers. But they're all very keen, and the minute they find anything…"

John had had enough.

"I think you'd be hard pressed to find anything remotely _recreational_ …" He shouldered his way between the squabbling men, bearded and filthy and furious.

And Sherlock was there.

"John, _John_ , you'd better shut up now." Sherlock's voice was low. Urgent.

Sherlock was standing much too close to him.

"No. You?"

 _“I would hate to think he’s slipping back into…bad habits.”_

Sherlock was standing much too close to him.

"John."

The clattering of a flat being dismembered stilled around them.

Sherlock was standing much too close to him.

"Are these _eyeballs_?" Sergeant Donovan burst into the room.

Sherlock spun away.

John would have stumbled and fallen if he'd not had a death-grip on his cane.

"They're for an experiment, put them back."

"They were in the microwave!"

John squeezed his eyes closed. The room spun beneath his feet.

Sherlock began to shout. Voices rang in the small flat:

"But what about the case?" Lestrade.

"I didn't _kill_ her. I'm not stupid. Like Anderson." Sherlock.

"Then why do you have it?" Anderson.

"I _found_ it. But her phone's not in there."

"Right." Donovan.

A firefight. Rapid. Staccato.

"I'm not lying." Sherlock's voice was a snarl.

The rumble of aircraft.

There was a pause.

"I believe you…" Lestrade.

Donovan's shout of disbelief: "… next time it'll be him that put it there."

"If I were going to murder her… What is it like for you idiots?"

"Anderson, put that back…Turn around, you're putting me off!"

"What?"

"Anderson, just… turn around." Lestrade sounded tired.

Inexplicably, John wanted to laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh until his face hurt, his sides hurt and tears were a stream down his cheeks.

"If she's carrying on all her affairs… she's cleverer than you lot, and she's _dead_!"

* * *

Her computer. Of course, to find her phone…

"The password?"

"… all together now, r-a-c-h-e-l!"

Of course. Why didn't he think of that?

"You're all idiots. Don't take it personally."

A pause. Bated breath. John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder as the GPS system bleeped at them.

And then:

"It says the phone is here." John's voice sounded very quiet in the crowded room.

"Sherlock?"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson!"

"You must have missed it," Lestrade said, perplexed.

"It can't be here, I didn't miss it."

"It _is_ here. You checked the case?"

"Of course I did. And I didn't come back here before I picked up…" A gesture to John.

"All right people, we're looking for a phone, probably pink." Lestrade turned away.

Why was he here? John shuffled and prepared to go.

Mrs Hudson blocked the door.

"Sherlock…"

"Not _now_ , Mrs Hudson."

"But Sherlock, there's a taxi for you."

"What…"

And Sherlock was gone.

Sergeant Donovan's triumphant and bitter "I told you so" echoed in John's ears.

He wondered for a moment if she wasn't half in love with the insane consulting detective.

"Does he do this a lot?" he asked Lestrade.

"I've known him for five years… I don't know any more about him than you do."

"I've just met the man… why are you…"

"Because he's a great man. And, one day, if I'm really lucky…"

A good man.

John remembered what it was like to be a good man.

He was alone in the flat.

With a beeping computer.

Curious, he leaned over and looked at the screen.

The phone was moving.

"Lestrade! Wait!"

Dropping his cane, John grabbed the laptop and sprinted for the door. He paused at the bottom of the stairwell and rummaged in his pack.

Still there. Still clean. Still ready.

 _…I might be a good man_

He had been fooling only himself.

* * *

The campus was silent; the only sign of life was the taxi, idling at the curb. On the seat, a pink phone.

Twin buildings.

Find him. Find him.

Sirens in the distance. Growing closer.

Find him.

John looked behind him. Police cars.

Find him.

He made a choice, ducked into the building.

Stairs. Corridors. Classrooms.

Find him.

John heard shouting. The squealing of tires.

 

Find him.

Sherlock.

Find him.

The cabbie: unremarkable in his cardigan and cap, through a window.

Seated at a table.

Sherlock. Pill at his lips.

He'd chosen the wrong building.

Find him.

Clean shot. Short distance. Aim. Breathe.

Find him.

The bullet embedded in the doorframe between them.

The cabbie spun and fled. Sherlock toppled over the table and ran to the window.

Fuck. He _missed_.

John ran.

Find _him_.

A footrace. Pounding down stairs.

Too late.

The driver revved the engine and drove straight ahead.

Straight towards John.

Seconds. Sherlock's pale face emerging from the shadows of the doorway.

Found him.

 _And I saw a rider on a pale horse._

Headlights.

Lestrade's stricken shout.

Sirens.

The rushing of the river.

Impossible, they were miles away.

Choose. Aim. Breathe.

An explosion of light and noise.

John was flying.

Pain.

Darkness.

 _Please, God, let me…_


	4. Chapter 4

“Hungry?” Sherlock’s face was alternately pale and blue in the flashing lights of the police cars. It clashed hideously with the orange blanket that trailed behind him like a bloody bridal train.

John was unaccountably reminded of Clara on her and Harry's wedding day.

He smiled and winced as the paramedic bound his right arm in a sling.

“Keep that as immobile as possible,” the paramedic warned.

“Dim sum?” John grinned. After what felt a lifetime of not being sure where his next meal would come from, the thought of food nearly made him dizzy. Not that he had any money to pay for it.

“How did you guess?” Sherlock asked, looking surprised. “Anyway, I’ll show you how I can predict the fortune cookies.”

It was ridiculous. John began to laugh. It welled up inside of him, bubbling and frothing. Sherlock joined in, a deeper baritone. John paused; he coughed, flinching as his collarbone protested.

“It’s a crime scene,” he said, lips twitching. “We shouldn’t giggle at a crime scene.”

Sherlock’s answering chuckle tightened around his heart.

“Come on,” Sherlock said. “At least one meal. And you can tell me how you knew about the dim sum.”

“I saw the menu on your desk,” John confessed. "Anyway, I should be moving on. Thanks for… letting me leave my kit at your flat.”

“You don’t have to leave. I need a flat-mate. And you need a place to stay. The street’s not going to be kind to your shoulder, especially in the condition it’s in, and you can barely walk."

“You'd …”

Sherlock smiled and helped him out from behind the police tape, flagging down a cab and boosting him into it before John could object.

Dinner first, then.

Sherlock turned out to be hopeless at predicting the fortune cookies.

* * *

Back at the flat, replete with Chinese food and laden with leftovers, they sat before the fire.

"I should… I should go," John finally said, breaking the silence.

"You're welcome to stay, you know," Sherlock said, his voice muted as he stared into the flames. "Mrs Hudson's quite fond of you."

John smiled. It had been a long time since…

“This… this _could_ be very nice,” John said, looking at the chaos of the sitting room, envy creeping into his voice.

“If it doesn’t… I’ll tidy up a bit and…” Sherlock swooped up and around him, plucking up the box that had held a pile of files and tucking it by the eyeballs Sergeant Donovan had excavated from the microwave.

“No, it’s great, I just…” John stopped. “I can’t afford this.”

Sherlock waved his hand and flopped back into the chair before him.

“That Sarah woman will give you a job. Plus, you trained at Bart's. I know Mike Stamford. You were in his year. He can bring you in.

"I should warn you, though, I sometimes don’t speak for days on end. I also play the violin. It helps me think."

“Wha…”

Sherlock leaped onto the chair and squatted on the seat, his hands steepled.

“You should know the worst about me before you decide. Now, your nightmares won’t bother me, and this will give Harry a place to get in touch with you. Why do you hate him so much, by the way? Is it the drinking? Or are you in love with his wife?”

The words rattled out of Sherlock – it was as if the panic that John might leave was radiating from him in waves. John chose Harry as the safer topic.

“It’s the drinking, mostly. How did you… never mind. You saw my phone before I threw it in the river and deduced all of that, right?”

“Of course.”

John smirked. “You did get one thing wrong, though.”

“Oh?”

“Harry’s short for Harriet.”

“Sister!” Sherlock hissed, leaping up and spinning away from him. “There’s always _something_.” He tossed a file onto the desk.

John laughed and flinched at the pain. “What about you?” he asked. “Girlfriend?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock was busy at his desk, plucking at his laptop, absently straightening papers.

“Girlfriend?”

“Ah, girlfriend. No, not really… my area.”

“Good, erm, not… Boyfriend?”

There was a long pause. Sherlock stilled, looked over his shoulder and then down at the floor.

“John, I’m flattered, but you should know, I consider myself married to my work and while I’m…”

John's gut tightened, vividly aware of his ragged jumper and filthy jeans. He felt the flush rising up his face. Before him, Sherlock stood, frozen.

“No, God, no," he backpedaled. "I just… it’s fine. It’s _all_ fine. I won’t be staying long anyway. Just until…”

“John.” Sherlock turned suddenly, closing the distance between them and squatting down to his level. “It’s okay.”

John’s eyes drifted closed. He licked his lips and prayed he wouldn’t do… whatever it was he was about to do.

"I should go," he whispered.

“You can stay as long as you like,” Sherlock said. “I’d… I’d like you to stay.”

A beat. A pause. Heartbeats. The flow of traffic beneath the window.

Breathe, John.

“You need help with the shower,” Sherlock observed, breaking the spell. “Come on.”

His hand went around John’s waist, lifting and propelling him gently to the door.

"And I promise, I won't …" Sherlock began to joke. "If that's what you were …. But you do, erm, need help. And you need to get clean."

“What will Mrs Hudson say?” John grasped for the feeble joke, powerless to stop Sherlock as he helped him to the door.

Sherlock snorted.

“She’d probably be thrilled.”

* * *

The bathroom was tiny, but John didn't care. Whatever it was in him that was fighting Sherlock's pull had given up.

He sighed and awkwardly pulled down his jeans and sat gingerly on the closed toilet lid. He bent forward to try and remove his socks – thick boot socks, a relic from the army.

"Let me." Sherlock loomed in the doorway and swooped down to peel them off.

John closed his eyes, remembering the last time he'd been able to wash his feet. Christ, when was the last time he'd cut his toenails? He hoped his feet – the smell alone …

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up, startled. When he finally replied, his voice was muted, and he looked at the floor as he pulled off John's socks. Still, the response was rapid, a volley of words,

"You killed a man. Defending me. You were injured. You could be in serious trouble. Lestrade only let you off tonight because you were with me, and… erm, in any event, that doesn't speak well for your chances tomorrow."

"None of that follows."

Sherlock looked up at him, pulling off the other sock. His shoulders sank slightly and he smiled broadly.

"It does; you're just an idiot."

John blinked at him. "What?"

"Don't worry about it. I think the best way to do this is with the nozzle. I don't have a chair. Can you kneel?" Sherlock asked, pulling away John's shirt. John stood and turned slightly to pull down his dingy y-fronts. He managed to get those off by himself, thank God.

He tensed slightly, naked and exposed. His cock felt heavy between his legs.

Come on, say something, you bastard.

Thankfully, Sherlock gave no sign of acknowledgement.

Bastard probably already knew.

"Yeah, I think I can kneel," John said.

"Right, up you get, then. There's a step up, and then down into the tub."

The problem was that John couldn't stay upright enough for Sherlock to use the nozzle properly.

It was awkward as hell.

"This isn't working. I'll have to get in with you." John stared at him in amazement. Sherlock chewed the bottom of his lip and frowned.

"Don't… don't move." Sherlock bounded out of the room and returned with a pile of clothing, clad in shorts and nothing else.

John couldn't help it. He stared.

Pale chest. Smattering of hair, trailing down to the waistband of his pants. Dark nipples. Rail thin, not emaciated, but… John licked his lips and quickly looked at the bottom of the tub.

He was a doctor, for Christ's sake. A professional.

You're not a professional, anymore. You live on the streets.

"You can borrow these. They were… they should fit." Sherlock waved a pair of pajama bottoms at him. "And a t-shirt, of course."

John grasped the edge of the tub and willed himself to relax. Behind him, he heard the rustling of clothes and felt a warm brush of skin, cloth and air against him.

Sherlock was kneeling behind him.

John dropped his chin to his chest and took a deep breath.

This was going to end badly.

He was not going to react.

He was not going to react.

He… he swallowed a gasp as Sherlock touched the back of his neck, loosening the sling slightly, relieving the pressure on his good shoulder.

"Relax, John. It's… normal." Sherlock's voice was quiet, restrained, rigidly controlled, _clinical_.

Bastard _had_ noticed. Fuck, he was embarrassed, too.

John managed a grunt, not looking up from a spot on the tub. A funny stain trickled down the enamel. The water was warm.

He could try to identify the stain.

And not think about how the warm water felt on his leg. Or the gentle pressure of Sherlock's chest against his back. Or the way that Sherlock's hands were tender on his uninjured side.

Fuck. It wasn't working. He'd done this before. Showered with men. He was a soldier, for fuck's sake.

He'd never been this close to something so captivating, though.

And he wasn't a soldier anymore.

This wasn't the time to parse his identity.

He'd end up with something like, "homeless veteran trying not to fall in love (lust?) with an insane consulting detective who's taken him in and is now bathing him."

John wasn't stupid. Nor was he inarticulate. But what did you call it when you needed something (or someone) so much you'd be willing to… to kill? To throw yourself in front of a moving taxi driven by a serial killer? To surrender yourself to a shower with him and not…

Or would he have done it anyway?

Something was wrong with John's breathing. There really wasn't enough air in the tiny shower. Not nearly enough.

He _needed_ this. And it scared the hell out of him.

Whatever _this_ was, it certainly wasn't normal.

Was normal what he wanted?

Home. Food. Sex? No, perhaps not sex, not good to be that open, that vulnerable. Commutes. Fuck, grocery shopping. He'd always hated grocery shopping. A piddling job in a piddling office.

Or: racing around London after a lunatic who gets into taxis with serial killers.

He'd faced down a speeding taxi tonight.

He'd killed a man.

Well, he hadn't been a very nice man.

"He wasn't a very nice man."

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, his hands suddenly still. John realized he'd said the last sentence aloud.

"The cabbie I killed. He wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock laughed. "No, and a bloody awful cabbie, too."

Something loosened inside of John, and he began to laugh.

They were laughing together – _giggling_. And John looked up again, turning slightly to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's face.

"And your work keeps you satisfied, does it?" John croaked.

Sherlock froze.

God, he was an idiot.

A thin white hand covered his, gripping the side of the tub. John looked at the hand. And the arm it was attached to.

And noticed three nicotine patches.

What kind of lunatic used _three_?

"John…"

There was still not enough air. John scrabbled for purchase in his mind.

"Christ, you must think…" He muttered.

"John, erm, look, I…" Sherlock cleared his throat and subsided. His hand pulled away from John's and he shifted behind him, water sloshing in the tub.

"No, it's fine, really, it's all…"

"John, it's…"

They were talking over each other.

"Whatever floats your…"

"John, I…"

Sherlock stopped suddenly and leaned forward to turn off the tap and snag a towel from the rod. His breath was hot on John's good shoulder.

Water trickled down the scar.

"Look, I'm sorry, I…" John shifted painfully.

There was not enough air in the tiny bathroom and he closed his eyes

 _He imagined Sherlock kissing him. John felt himself responding, bringing his free arm around Sherlock to steady himself as they knelt together in the rapidly cooling bathtub. Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth, and John moaned, daring to suck on it. Sherlock's response was electric, almost devouring him – teeth, tongue and lips – until there was no bathtub, no pain in his arm or knees from the hard surface, no chill from the water, just Sherlock, **Sherlock** , whose hand was on his hip, pulling them impossibly closer. _

_"Christ," John gasped when Sherlock pulled away to lean his forehead against John's._

How long had it been?

Months.

Before the streets. When he'd returned. The semblance of normality.

There was not enough air in the tiny room.

"John, it's just …" Sherlock took a breath. "Transport."

What the fuck did that mean?

The knot returned.

"Fuck," John murmured. "You do this with all the homeless you take in?"

The tension eased again.

Sherlock's chuckle echoed in the bathroom as he helped John out of the tub.

"You'll have to use my bed. I'll sleep upstairs – the sofa's not, erm, safe."

John drew a shuddering breath.

* * *

It was very early. Around them, they could hear the sounds of a city on the verge of wakening.

He lay on Sherlock's bed, in the borrowed pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, engulfed in what felt like miles of rumpled sheets and a mountain of a duvet.

We should talk about this.

I don't want to talk about this.

Is this what my life is supposed to… a mad flat mate? Lover? No, not lover. Friend? Colleague? No, that's too…

"Stop worrying at it," Sherlock said from the door. "You worry too much about insignificant things."

How exactly was this _insignificant_? And how did he… oh, never mind.

"We should at least talk about the nicotine patches," John said as Sherlock entered the room, all pajama pants and blue dressing gown. He was still shirtless, pale skin almost glowing in the early morning light.

"What about them?"

"Three?"

Sherlock shrugged and sat down on the bed.

"It was a three-patch problem."

"You can't just…" John turned his head to stare at Sherlock's profile.

Beautiful.

Fuck, but he was in deep.

A door creaked open.

"What the hell?"

Sherlock muttered, "Fuck off, Mycroft" and flopped back onto the bed, his head narrowly missing John's feet. He traced his hand over his lips, a gesture reminiscent of a smoking habit, his eyes fluttering closed.

It was fucking distracting.

Somebody was moving about the sitting room.

"Should I…?" John asked, moving to sit up against the headboard.

Sherlock snored.

Oh. Well, then.

John grimaced and gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Whoever it was, Sherlock was obviously not fussed about it.

Mrs Hudson, perhaps?

It wasn't Mrs Hudson.

Standing by the table, holding an envelope, was "Erm… Anthea".

"What are you doing here?" John demanded.

She smiled and handed him an envelope before turning and click-click-clicking in her heels downstairs.

Inside the envelope was a wad of one-hundred pound notes.

Clipped to the wad of notes was a message:

 _Allow me to express my appreciation for your valiant actions of the previous evening in saving my brother's life. How Sherlock has managed to engender such loyalty in one whom he has only recently met is, as yet, beyond me. I trust that the enclosed will be a sufficient beginning to your new life with Sherlock Holmes._

 _We will be in contact._

 _M. Holmes_

Brother. Sherlock had a brother. Who apparently kidnapped people when it suited him.

"Did Mycroft offer you money, then?" Sherlock's voice from the door. John turned.

"I thought you were sleeping. Yes, he… to keep an eye on you." John shook his head.

Sherlock ruffled his hair with his hand.

"Text from Lestrade. He wants to see us both later this morning. I want tea, first, though."

Sherlock walked to the kitchen and began to root around the detritus of the drugs bust – had that only been last night? – in search of the kettle.

"Think the money through," his voice floated out to John. "You can use it toward your half of the rent. My brother can be quite useful at times."

John stared at the envelope in his hand and set it carefully on the table.

"Ah! There's the kettle!" A triumphant shout from the kitchen.

"I'll, erm… get dressed then, shall I?" John asked.

From downstairs, he could smell Mrs Hudson's brewing coffee.

Sunlight poured in through the windows of the sitting room, and the jar of eyeballs glowed from the table, beneath the cattle skull on the wall.

Dust motes danced in the air.

John picked up the cane with his good hand and tossed it, catching it in the middle.

A smile tugged at his lips.

The river was far away.

But she would wait. She understood.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to bluestocking79, machshefa, annietalbot, subvers, and pyjamapants for the hand holding.


End file.
